Monday, December 19, 2016

the weathervane

a dry spell
arrives across the land of you.
the hills
bare and brown.
the sky a low
band of white clouds
doing nothing.
you sigh.
you look around.
there is no inspiration
in the well.
the hills,
the face in the window
wondering
what's wrong with you.
the weathervane,
is unmoving
on the peak.

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